


Silent Spectres

by Rigel99



Series: To Be a Quartermaster [11]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q's nerves are as frayed as his favourite cardigan. Fortunately, his favourite agent has a heart of stone interspersed with flecks of gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The Quartermaster of MI6 did enjoy working the Double-Os on ground during mission time. That didn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t want to give them a royally-wrapped, old school kick up the arse when the occasion demanded.

“008. What in the name of all that is holy in the world do you think you are doing?”

_“Improvising, Q.”_

“You do realise had you followed my instructions five minutes ago, you would not now be forced to improvise?”

_“I was getting bored. Thought I’d mix it up a bit.”_

“And age your Quartermaster the equivalent in cat years. How thoughtful,” Q replied dryly.

“That looks uncannily like a similar situation I was caught up in last month,” rumbled the manifestation of 007 behind him. Q had long since abandoned being startled by such ghost-like materialisations and just accepted them for what they had become. Bloody annoying. Much like he had been in bed this morning.

“ _I’m busy, Bond.”_

_“As am I,” he replied coolly, lips gently caressing the nape of his neck, chest pressed against the Quartermaster’s back while he exchanged messages with R on what was required for 008’s upcoming mission. James ran splayed hands around Arthur’s waist and gently caressed._

_Arthur's typing fingers didn’t falter. “Not that you need reminding but I believe it was you who invited me to stay last night for the post-dinner banquet that was the Quartermasterly content of my bed,” whispered Bond against the skin of a smooth shoulder that he delighted in watching prickle in response._

_“My bed,” corrected Q._

_“Our bed…” countered Bond, with a warm and affectionate inflection. That comment was what it took to make Q’s fingers stutter against his laptop keys. He quickly resumed his typing, finished the sentence he was writing and slammed the lid of the computer down, before turning towards James, pushing him without any semblance of decorum back against the pillows. He crawled down his body and took the agent in a hot, eager clasp of lips and slide of tongue…_

“What can I do for you, 007?” enquired Q. “Aren’t you off mission until Tel Aviv? Which, unless I have been grossly misinformed, isn’t for another 24 hours?”

“My meeting with Tanner was brought forward. I thought while I was in the building I’d pop by Q-Branch and ensure you weren’t leading any other Agents astray.”

He picked up the spare headset - R’s headset - next to Q’s keyboard, and popped it on.

Q gave him a narrow-eyed look of incredulity. “What do you think you’re doing, 007?”

“Hemmings.”

_“Bond? What are you doing online? Have you murdered Q at his post?”_

“It hasn’t come to that yet fortunately,” he replied, looking at the screen and the stationary pulse of 008’s position while he waited for the in situ crisis to calm before making his next move. “Only one word of advice from someone who knows? When the Quartermaster speaks? Listen,” looking towards Q then, a trained, unreadable expression in place.

“Bloody menace,” grumbled Q, though not without a grudging fondness.

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” said James accompanying the comment with a disarming smile while removing the headset.

“I’d have you six ways until Sunday, but unfortunately we don’t have time for that,” Q replied with quiet nonchalance while refocussing on 008’s foray.

“I’ll hold you down to that,” mumbled James with a parting smack on his arse carefully timed that no-one was close enough to see but that Q was certain he would be feeling for the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

M was standing by the window in her office while Bond flicked through the file.

“We know very little about the contact. She effectively exiled herself from Britain to Israel some years ago. We can only think that whatever has caused her to surface know when she could have remained a ghost must have very grave implications indeed. And if it gives us an in to that illegal weapons trafficking that is fuelling unrest in the West Bank then I and my counterpart at the CIA are more than happy to take the opening.”

“And you are sending me why? It seems an operation of this nature might require, shall we say, a more delicate touch?” asked Bond, keeping the file in his hand so he could analyse its contents more thoroughly later. Arthur Clifton’s penchant for due diligence, it seemed, was rubbing off on the Agent. Well, that and other things were rubbing off, Bond’s focus momentarily derailed by the image of hazel-green eyes…

“It’s rather unknown territory, and much as I disapprove of some of your less orthodox methods, 007, I do recognise that on occasion, the needs of the Service require your uncanny knack of somehow getting the lay of the land,” M glanced over at Bond realising she’d left herself open for some innuendo laden jibe which surprisingly didn’t arrive, Bond’s attention on the file’s contents, “quickly when it is unknown. Even if you do end up blowing half of it up in the process. I’m sure you’ll refrain from such activities in such a politically sensitive melting pot on this occasion.”

Bond looked over at his superior then and stood, sensing the meeting was drawing to a close. “I admire your faith, and optimism, Ma'am.”

“Dismissed, Bond. Be at liberty to not _cock it up…_ ”

* * *

_Speaking of…_

_“We—“ Bond’s hand glanced down his belly. “We—“ Fingers slid around the small of his back and down. “Should probabab—“ Q gasped. “Readthatmissionfile.”_

_“Later,” whispered James against his throat, fingers reminding Q that a well-made gun wasn’t the only thing Bond’s hands could wield like an expert._

_It was fifteen well spent minutes turning his Quartermaster inside out. Every experience shared with Arthur Clifton was like reliving his favourite mission on repeat. Bond was not a man to complain when fortuitous circumstances manifested in his life._

_“You,” began the Agent before taking another haggard breath, “are utterly captivating.”_

_His slender but beautifully constructed - or rather deconstructed in current scenario - Quartermaster was a heaving mess of pale, flushed flesh beneath him. Skin cooling under a glistening layer of sweat on both men, Bond allowed his hands to slide unhesitant up Q’s sides. Still coiled with barely satisfied lust, James scooped the pliant, unresisting bundle into strong arms and kissed him as one would a lover drawing their last breath._

_“And a bloody good fuck, I’m sure you’ll agree,” replied Arthur, equally breathless._

_“And so eloquent. Let’s not forget that,” replied James roughly against his chuckle, flopping down gracelessly by his side._

_Arthur tipped his head in his direction to take in the disheveled profile of his partner. “Eloquence is over-rated in one blessed with unfettered access to the finest assets Her Majesty’s Secret Service has to offer.”_

_“Glad you think so highly of me, Q.”_

_“You’ve weaved your way into the strings of code that occupy my attention on a frequent basis. Oddly, it is more comforting and reassuring than distracting.”_

_“You do realise you said that out loud, don’t you?”_

_“I have no compunctions about saying things how I see them. In our line of work, it is unprofessional to have regrets and life is short and Carpe Diem…”_

_“How about I Carpe Mentula instead?” said Bond, leaning over him and reaching beneath the covers to take him in hand, resorting to his usual tactic when it came to shutting down the overactive mind of his companion._

_Q closed his eyes, arched his back and quickly rolled his hips into Bond’s warm, firm grip. “Seize away, 007…”_

_Meanwhile George, figuring out a kitty snack wasn’t going to be forthcoming any time soon, wandered out of the bedroom to locate Bond’s shoes and take a well-earned poop._


	3. Chapter 3

Few who knew of his existence could deny the cold lethality that coursed through the veins of MI6’s deadliest living weapon. Fewer still understood the origins of that fatal nature, borne from fate itself. James chose not to dwell on the past. Instead, he chose to wield the experiences imprinted on his soul by that past for Queen and Country. And sometimes, he chose to wield it simply to satisfy himself; to quiet the demons of abandonment that occasionally threatened to poke through the ice-cold veneer that for so long had served him perfectly well. The demons that kept him alive, detached and in complete control, even when standing in the eye of the chaotic and relentless storm of destruction he so frequently whipped up.

People died. People lived. James Bond was the embodiment of a game of Russian Roulette, the fulcrum upon which the scales of life precariously balanced. Everyone walked that tightrope. James Bond, apparently, was one of the few whose dance for Death kept even the Grim Reaper enamoured enough to allow him to continue to grace the world with his own brand of devastation.

Years of the work to which he had dedicated his life had left James Bond a shell of a man. An assassin. A machine. A provocateur. That shell, of course, had cracked on the rooftop of a derelict building in Venice, and the emptiness inside was slowly being replaced by the passion and professionalism of one Arthur Clifton, MI6 Quartermaster, who for some reason James chose to not overanalyse, considered him a project worthy of his attentions.

Bond felt his heart - or what was left of it - and his mind being tugged simultaneously in multiple directions.

While Stephanie Plastow filled he and the listening Quartermaster on the scourge of the organisation of which her brother was an integral part and the scale of the business involving the sale of young and innocent in exchange for weapons, Bond felt the anger well up like the very subtle beginnings of what he knew would be a tsunami whipped up by the tornado of a red mist.

Stephanie reached across the table and rested a small hand on Bond’s forearm. She was quietly earnest with her next words. “I know where they are. Help me. James.”

He centred himself, detachedly assessing the pleading in her eyes punctuated by her words and the compassion in her voice.

He felt the tug of duty with the next voice that penetrated his thoughts. _“Bond.”_ The clipped, officious tone sounded in his ear. _“Do not go off script.”_

It would seem, after only a brief time together and while in mission mode on the other side of the bloody world, his bloody clever Quartermaster had the measure of the machinations of his mind. There are inherent risks that accompany falling for someone as crafty and intelligent as yourself. But then, and even Bond could admit it to himself, he always had been a bit of a narcissist.

“Of course not, Q,” lied Bond in honeyed tones.

The pensive hum from the other end of the line told Bond that Q wasn’t fooled for a second. Bond was momentarily grounded by the revelation that Q ran all the more complex missions of each of the Double Os so he was well-versed in the psychology of MI6’s Intelligence Officers.

 _Fuck it,_ thought Bond to himself, _we both know what I’m going to do. And it is so much easier to ask forgiveness than permission._

He was pretty sure his next move would earn him a tracker implant in his heart and a brief stint in the Falklands for his trouble. But what else was new?

 _Oh well. In for a penny…_ He made his decision then and stood, took Stephanie Plastow by the elbow and steered her into the crowd while removing his earpiece, dropping it to the ground and grinding it firmly beneath the heel of his shoe.

And while he may not have heard the string of expletives that followed the static flooding Q’s headpiece on the other side of the world, nearly everyone else in Q Branch did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little scene to warm up the weekend...

_Sometimes, to win the war, we must first endure the wounds and wear the scars inflicted upon us by battle._

_Few knew this better than MI6’s relatively young but stalwart Quartermaster. The wizard who supplied the triggers to kill; the man who knew all too well the price of love; the human who understood the distance that must be maintained between those who worked in arguably the most secret organisation in the world; the inherent dangers in getting too close to those who insist on crawling beneath and taking tentative residency beneath our skins. So when Arthur Clifton stepped from his bathroom, body freshly showered clean from motor oil and the smell of molten metal one evening, scrubbing dry his hair with a towel while strolling into his living room to be greeted by the hungry, angry stare of a dishevelled, stormy-eyed Double O agent, he knew this was one of those battles._

_“James. You’re back.”_

_Bond - butterfly bandages holding together the shallow gash on his forehead, a bloodied shirt collar and missing tie - remained silent. Stood stock still in the doorway leading to the kitchen. Watching._

_Q was unfazed. He knew what was coming. Such a scenario had presented itself on previous occasions. Usually, Bond had the sense to stay away from Arthur immediately post mission. Sometimes, he drank himself into a coma; Sometimes, he’d run for miles along the river, hard and fast until the lactic acid buildup in his leg muscles was so painful, it would override all his other senses, leaving him numb. Before Q, he would snare some pretty, leggy thing for one night of lust and hope the pleasure centres in his brain would trigger hard enough to make him forget everything else._

_Since Q, however, things had changed. He had changed. His needs had changed. They watched each other, waiting each other out. Though Q knew that it would not be him that would make the move. He could instigate it however._

_Bond flexed his hands. The itch needed to be scratched. Bond silently catalogued every move with heightened senses; the drop of his eyelids, long lashes like fine silken threads brushing pale, high cheekbones; hazel eyes gone dark, the crosshairs in dark pools trained with brutal precision on the agent; a slender hand raised to push back wet, unruly waves, temporarily tamed, though not for long; the other hand, its thumb hooked into the corner of the towel pulled away to loosen the item enough that it slips from slender hips to pool around fine, delicate ankles, toes curling warm with anticipation into the soft rug beneath his feet._

_To 007, everything about him is perfect. Everything about him his Bond’s. And right there, on that rug in the centre of Q’s living room, James makes his claim._

_It is not gentle. Not heartfelt. Not kind. It is fast and dirty and there are no words of affection shared between them._

“ _I_ bruise _. I_ break _. I_ batter. _I_ destroy _.” Each word pushed from his lips harshly punctuated with each thrust of his hips into the warm, caressing heat of Arthur. All Arthur can do is breathe through the blessedly brief moment of pain and give his agent what he needs._

_It is the rebalancing act required to chase the demons away, melting them back into the darkness tucked away and out of sight, for now, before collapsing by his Quartermaster’s side, allowing the younger man to wrap long limbs around him and encase him protectively, like he would any of his most precious tech or weapons._

_“I really don’t know what the fuck you see in me, you know,” murmured James against a sweat-sheened collarbone, breathless, sated, content. A brief reprieve until his next mission wrecked havoc on the heart that piece by piece was being rebuilt by the presence of his Quartermaster._

_Arthur did not verbalise a response. Sometimes, silence was the only, the best answer. A soft kiss instead, laced with forgiveness, understanding and acceptance._

_To Q, he is far from perfect. To Arthur, he wouldn’t have him any other way._


	5. Chapter 5

Back in his pseudo-comfort zone, amongst the scum of the earth, parading around a world made for their own play and pleasures, masters of the universe, but only the universe they inhabited. The tuxedo-clad men - ranging from early thirties to late sixties - milled around the low-lit room, sipping from champagne flutes accompanied by leggy beauties draped across their arms in an effort to appease and distract their thoughts from the reality of the copious amount of money from which they were about to be parted. Sex comes at a price, and of course the more taboo the act and the person with whom it was performed, the more expensive. Such men wielded the world with twisted echoes of the past that haunted their dreams, future reflections distorted by the tyrannical design they were determined to shape in their own debauched image.

He had gone dark twelve hours ago, fleetingly imagining in that moment Q standing stoically at his post waiting for him to re-establish contact while at the same time fantasising new and interesting ways of making him pay for disregarding a direct order. The eyes of his overlords at MI6 would not approve what he was about to do despite Bond’s motivation. MI6 bureaucrats were not interested in motivations. Orders were orders. And Bond loved orders with the same fervour a fly enjoys getting trapped in a web. Right now and until this unauthorised aspect of his mission was complete, Bond would remain dark from the voice of his lover and Quartermaster, who no doubt would have a few choice words and pearls of wisdom to impart upon the agent on his return.

Assuming, of course, he did return.

He was confident he hadn’t used up all his nine lives just yet. How often had he lived to die another day, and another…

Bond quietly accepted the attentions of a dark-haired, brown-eyed petite, demure enough not to demand attention that could otherwise be put to better use getting the measure of his fellow buyers. To all intents and purposes, none of them seemed to present a threat, they were all gathered in this den to satisfy base lusts and desires that could not be satisfied elsewhere. The one thing Bond did have to his advantage was the cock-level surety these men possessed was that none would betray the other, confident that their shared debauchery would remain locked in their hearts and safely contained within these private walls away from prying eyes. It meant security was present but not excessively. It meant these men were more relaxed than they rightly should be. But then, why would they think for a second there was a fox in their midst, intent on ripping out their throats and laying their little cosy roost to waste.

 _Thank Christ for overconfident arseholes,_ thought Bond to himself. On that observation, the lights dimmed and the guests took the various plush seats scattered around the room while their companions drifted off into the shadows and behind curtains that adored the walls. Bond’s eyes were drawn to the raised platform in the centre of the room then shifted to the two shadows moving towards it from the opposite side of the room. Then the light focussed on the little plinth.

A young girl, certainly no more than fourteen, puberty evidently just beginning to blossom, stood there. Head bowed, a light, almost transparent chiffon covering her slender form. Her heritage appeared Asian, at least on one side of her parentage. Bond considered himself made of stern stuff and a skin thicker than elephant hide but the shift of hunger that fell upon the room and the few quiet hums of approval that rippled through the room made the hackles on the back of his neck rise in disgust.

Bidding began in earnest. Men with money to burn, enough money would move across the world tonight to arm a small army in a thriving weapons trafficking trade for the stolen children that no one would ever see again. Bond made a show of bidding, never enough to buy but interested enough not to draw attention to himself. Three girls and two teenage boys later and a break in proceedings was called.

He made for the door and was summarily blocked by one of the armed attendants. Bond didn’t grace him was a smile reckoning the effect would be lost on the muscled brawn. “Little boys room?” he enquired innocently as he could muster. The man gave him an assessing once over before stepping aside and pushing the door outward. “End of the corridor on the right,” he surrendered gruffly. Bond returned the appraising look. “Care to join me?” his demeanour fluidly transitioning from standoffish to inviting. The man just smirked and after four seconds said with a gesture of his arm out the door. “Ladies first…”

**Two minutes later**

“Maybe you should actually stick to ladies,” rumbled Bond as he shoved the unconscious thug into a cubicle and onto a toilet seat, divesting him of his gun while doing so. He twisted the heel of his shoe and removed the adaptable silencer, slipping onto the weapon. Three quiet shots took care of the heavies in the corridor before Bond triggered the fire alarm and the sprinklers kicked in. He re-entered the auction room while chaos was unfolding. One of the guests was making a grab for the latest auction item before Bond shot him in the arm and he stumbled back in shock. The young boy backed away in fear and confusion.

“Andrew.”

The boy hesitated, looked up at the blond man drenched through like him, holding out his hand while the gun hung by his side.

“Stephanie.”

The boy’s eyes went wide and a small smile of relief appeared as he jogged towards Bond who gathered him up in his arms. He buried his face in the agent’s neck and didn’t look up again. Fortunately. It doesn’t do for one so young to bear witness to so much death in one night, and if Bond had to kill four more men to make their escape, it was no great loss to the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the last part of the series. For anyone thinking I am plagarising my own writing, I am. :) This part forms the Tel Aviv mission touched on in "BOUND" so if the ending looks familiar to you, that's the reason. 
> 
> I am toying with the idea of re-working the series into long form, a novel with a deeper exploration of Q. But we shall see.
> 
> Thanks for reading, 00Qers. :)

It was with nothing less than a deeply profound look of gratitude that welcomed James when he opened his hotel room door to the knock of Stephanie Plastow. She barely glanced at the agent, looking immediately past him to the young boy curled up sleeping on the double bed. She hurried over and gathered the boy into her arms, his small body heavy and drowsy with exhaustion and adrenaline depletion. She could barely hold back the tears. Bond stood by the door, waiting. Far from sentimental, he was nonetheless reminded of his own loss so many years ago, the face of the woman whom he had known as mother for the first eleven years of his life. Now, a lifetime - No. Several lifetimes - ago.

Stephanie looked up at the agent, pulling on his jacket. She begrudgingly released the boy from her embrace and reached for her satchel, pulling out the padded envelope.

She handed it to him smiling, her gratitude plainly written across her face. Stepping into his space she placed a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth before stepping back. She indicated to the envelope with her eyes.

“Use it wisely and not all at once,” she said. “And I’ve included a little something extra for your trouble,” she finished, returning to the bed to curl up and spoon into the still slumbering boy.

Bond smiled, turning to leave without a word. He hoped it was what he thought it was. If so, maybe Q wouldn’t go so hard on him and M’s reprimand wouldn’t involve reassignment to an obscure Arctic location.

* * *

**_Three Days Later…_ **

Q was sitting in his office. He still had two hours before he clocked off for the day. He knew Bond was back off mission and currently in the building, Tel Aviv done and dusted. 

Tanner had informed him in the interim and on the QT that M had torn strips from the agent and he’d probably had his fill of his superiors. Less than happy about the implication though grudgingly appreciative of Tanner's intervention, Q had made his decision. If M can vent in her way, a necessary and appropriate response to Bond’s complete disregard for mission parameters, Q could vent in his own manner.

He didn’t have to wait long for the unmistakeable rap of 007’s knuckles on his door. He strode into the room without pause. Q stood from his chair while they appraised each other briefly in the semi-dark. Bond spoke first, tossing a folder on Q’s desk. “My report.”

“Thank you,” Q replied flatly, reaching for the file.

Bond turned as if to go, but paused with his fingers on the handle of the door. “I couldn’t do it.”

Q looked up. “Excuse me?” He could barely see Bond, stood as he was just the dark side of the halo of light beaming from the desk lamp.

“Stephanie.” He took a step forward. Q could now see his eyes, sparkling blue with raw truth. Truth, want and need.

And frankly, Q was in no mood to deny himself either.

All Bond needed was one gesture of invitation. So Q gave it to him. 

Q took a breath and hit ENT on his keyboard.

“You have exactly 140 seconds to do whatever it is you have to do, Bond.”

Because Q was usually one step ahead of himself, a trait he had found kept him - and everyone around him - on his own toes, he had made the necessary prep to the system that would disrupt the camera feed in his office, including several more random and slightly more important areas, for approximately three minutes. There was no doubt in his mind now, watching the agent, that given the state of Bond’s own, it wouldn’t take any longer to take care of business. Take care of Bond before one or more of the Q Division minions came stumbling into his office to ensure that there was indeed nothing more than a computer glitch about which to be concerned.

“Long enough,” growled Bond, turning to lock the door before rounding the table, freeing the file from Q’s hands and wrestling him against the wall behind his desk. “I am going to _destroy_ you, Q,” voice hot with promise, eyes dark with desire, “in less time than it takes you to savour your first cup of Earl Grey…” he whispered against his lips, reaching for his belt before undoing his own with deft fingers. He didn’t even bother to take off his overcoat, pressing Q firm and unrelenting against the cool surface behind them. Taking them both in hand, his eyes never left Q’s. Q didn’t flinch, staring right back, his lack of resistance all the invitation Bond needed. This was business. This was the demands of the toughest job in the world breaking the surface of steely control for just a moment in time, a demand for release that must be met lest Bond do something stupid. Well, more stupid than usual. More stupid than taking the Quartermaster in his own office.

“90 seconds, 007,” Q whispered, as he sunk clawing fingers into his shoulders, tugging hard at the overcoat.

Q felt the heat coil, simultaneous and mutual. The steady thud of pounding hearts and pumping blood fled strong and fast through burning veins. Bond dropped his fixed stare from Q’s eyes and let himself go, feeling the pieces of himself come back together. He was swiftly followed by his partner, neither capable of nor wanting to prolong the experience. The need for satisfaction raw as the press of clothes-covered flesh pushing them both to completion.

Bond released them both and tidied himself up, his breath returning to normal in no time at all, a testament to his fitness. He took hold of Q’s hands when they moved to also adjust himself back into something vaguely presentable and dropped down onto his knees in front of him. Lifting his sweater, he pressed his lips to Q’s stomach with a whispered “thank you” voiced against warm, moist skin. Q lightly touched Bond’s hair, running his fingers gently over the back of his head and coming to rest on his cheek. In all their times together, he couldn’t recall Bond in such a demonstratively intimate and vulnerable position. He stood quickly and did up his overcoat to cover the evidence of their liaison while Q took care of himself with equal speed. As Bond unlocked the door and took a seat, Q hit ESC on his laptop and normality was restored.

And when Tanner left the room forty seconds later, confident that MI6 internal security wasn’t falling down around their ears, Bond left Q’s office shortly thereafter with a parting look that suggested a certain Quartermaster was in for a very long night ahead involving zero paperwork but a lot of debriefing.

* * *

“Do I need to apologise for earlier?” James asked, a weary head resting on Arthur’s chest.

“Not at all,” Q replied with a small smile, hand gliding absently down James’ spine.

“I saw the picture you know. The day after the funeral at Dover.” Arthur’s hand stilled, recalling the day. The day when he had said goodbye to the one great passion in his life, not yet realising that he was standing beside the next. “You and Charles together. He was very attractive. Makes me wonder what you see in this old dog.”

“Why, Commander Bond. Do I detect a note of insecurity? That won’t do at all. Might have to report this development to M.”

Arthur felt the smile against his chest as James turned his head to give his lips free purchase across the man’s bare torso.

Arthur spoke then, through parted lips pressed close against the crown of James’ head. “You, James bloody Bond, are an entirely different beast. I've changed. And though I’ll never stop loving him I’ve accepted, not without the occasional ache, that Charles is gone. But you,” he said, enveloping the agent in his arms, “are right here.”

“Every cloud and all that…” Q murmured through a kiss to his lips laced with the message, loud and clear. Because while Arthur Clifton, Quartermaster had his back, James Bond, 007, would always feel safe, be safe, come home.

Safe.

 

** END **


End file.
